The Boy Who Fell from the Sky by Jule Owen (grave mercy .TXT) 📕

“There’s no need,” Mathew says.

“When I was young, the police weren’t thugs,” Gen says. “They didn’t have guns, and the whole country understood why. These days, I’m sure they hire a lot of these men straight from the criminal courts. Convicted criminals get the choice of joining the army or the security services rather than prison time.” 

“Do you think Mr Lestrange works for the police?” Mathew asks Gen.

“Mr Lestrange?! Why on earth do you ask that?”

“Because he is always watching people.”

“Like you, you mean?” Clara says.

Gen says, “Clara, I am sure Mathew wasn’t watching you. Not intentionally, anyway. And Mr Lestrange isn’t a policeman. He’s some kind of historian.”

“That’s what my mum says.”

“He’s got an impressive library, you know, of old-fashioned paper books.”

“How do you know? Were you in his house?”

“Yes. Once. When I was doing my stint as neighbourhood watch organiser. You know, it rotates around all the adults in the street. Even your mum has done it. The local police were doing a sweep of houses, the usual thing, people harbouring illegal immigrants, and I had to accompany the police around the houses to make sure they didn’t damage anything while they searched.”

“What was his house like?”

“Like this one. Actually, no, more like yours. He has a Darkroom, I don’t. But his front room is this wonderful library, full of beautifully bound books. History books, he said.”

“But there was nothing odd? No strange equipment?”

“I didn’t notice anything, no. I think he’s fairly ordinary. People always think people living on their own and who keep to themselves, are suspect, but he’s harmless.”

“I don’t think he’s harmless at all.”

“Why?”

“Because of the way the guard reacted to him. When you spoke to him, the guard was getting angrier. When Mr Lestrange spoke to him, he immediately backed down.”

“Perhaps it was a man thing?”

“Perhaps . . . but I don’t think so. It was odd.” 

“The entire thing was odd,” Gen says. “How did O’Malley escape, anyway?”

“Through the living room window. I had dropped . . . something in the tree. It’s a long story . . .”

“Is that the thing you dropped?” Clara asks, pointing to the amplifier and the wire bundle in Mathew’s arms.

“Yes,” he says.

“What is it?” 

“It’s an amplifier.” 

“Mathew is a science scholar,” Gen explains to Clara. 

“I’d really better go,” he says. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Come on, O’Malley,” he says to the cat. O’Malley is happily curled on Clara’s lap and doesn’t want to move. Mathew isn’t sure how to retrieve him. Clara scoops him into her arms and offers him to Mathew. 

“Thank you,” Mathew says. She doesn’t meet his eyes.

Gen stands and shows Mathew to the door. “Don’t let go of him until you get in the house.”

“I won’t,” he says. “I’m hanging on for dear life.”

Back in his room, Mathew finds Mr Lestrange playing on his mind as he works on the amplifier. He decides it’s too much trouble to fix the amplifier so finds a new design with hooks built in. While it’s printing, he starts to search on the Nexus for Mr Lestrange.

The Nexus is so ubiquitous, even the most tech-averse person is on it somewhere. But Mr Lestrange is not on the electoral register. He’s not a member of any social network. Lestrange the historian hasn’t published any academic papers. There’s no Professor Lestrange registered as teaching at any school or university, in London or internationally. There are no random photos, either, taken by a colleague, friend, or family member and tagged. It’s impossible that someone hasn’t captured him on camera or film or commented on him somewhere. Mathew tries every variation of Lestrange’s name he can think of, tries searching for his address, but as far as the Nexus is concerned, Lestrange doesn’t exist.

The 3D printer has completed its run. Mathew tests the new amplifier and connects again in the living room, ready for Clara’s lesson the next day. 

At nine o’clock, just as he’s finishing, he receives an alert from the social network Consort, of a connection request. He hardly ever uses Consort. It’s a cross between a school playground and a human meat market, full of tribes, shallow relationships, and vapid content. He’d like to terminate his account but doing so is tantamount to dying online. And, bizarrely, the account is unofficially required for college and employment applications. 

Requests come in from random people all the time, and he ignores most of them – they barely register with him – but Clara’s name catches his eye. 

“Accept,” he says.

Clara is there online, waiting. 

“Thanks,” she says. “I wasn’t sure you’d accept.”

“Why did you think that?”

“Because of the way I spoke to you. I was rude.”

“Yes, you were.”

She pauses and then says, “Anyway, after you left, Gen and I chatted. So I wanted to apologise and to explain.”

“You don’t have to.” He’s wondering what Gen said, guessing she told Clara about his father and now she is sorry for him. He hopes not. 

“I want to. Please let me.”

“Go ahead.” His voice comes out colder than he means it to.

“Not here,” she says. “Can I come and see you sometime, in your house?”

“Sure. Just come after your lesson. I’m stuck here, remember.”

Later, Mathew logs onto the Blackweb and searches for Mr Lestrange using MUUT, the Blackweb search engine. His search returns zero results. 

I need help, he thinks.

9 Drowned London

DAY THREE: Wednesday, 24 November 2055, London

Most of the Thames bridges are closed. The tunnels are all flooded. There are only a few options for getting across the river, to reach Mathew’s school. 

Nan Absolem has arranged for a car to come and collect him. It’s an Aegis car, like the one his Mother and Clara travel in. It comes with a guard, too. Mathew gingerly steps past him, as he gets into the back. 

One dragon zips inside in front of him, but the guard shuts the door on the other. There is nothing stopping the dragon from getting into the car, but it believes it is left behind. Mathew opens the window slightly and the dragon squeezes in. The guard, sitting in the front, opens the glass panel separating them, glances over his shoulder, and says, “Alright?” 

“Yes, fine,” Mathew says. “I was just testing the windows.”

“Right,” the guard says, sniffing as he turns back to face the road. 

Mathew has the black fake-leather upholstered seats in the main body of the car to himself. Like all cars, this one is arranged inside like a mini-living room, with two two-seater sofas facing one another and a coffee table, which doubles as a holovision, in between. 

The backs of the doors and windows are a form of unbreakable glass and act as screens. Right now they surround Mathew with a forest scene – a lake, trees, and a blue sky – but they are connected to the Nexus and can display any web page, TV channel, or video. He changes the display so he can see the world outside, and the forest melts away to reveal houses, pavements, and the road. The view is only one way. Aegis assumes its customers want anonymity. 

Most cars don’t have a front seat at all. The only reason the Aegis cars have seats in the front is because they come with armed guards. The security company found that its clients were unable to relax sitting in the back of a car next to a man with a machine gun balanced on his knees. 

Normally, Mathew would get to school using public transport, but all the tubes and train lines are shut. This has happened before – the flood, the transport system being brought to a standstill – but when it did, he went to a school nearer his house and he walked.

They leave Pickervance Road. All the shops and cafes on the high street are shut. Some are boarded up against looters coming from the riverside and the makeshift camp in the park and on the common. One or two of the shops look like they’ve been looted. There’s an armed policeman walking to and fro along the pavement. He guards whatever remains of the stock and the robotic shop assistants. People rarely work in shops anymore. All the shops are owned by corporates and are fully automated. 

Mathew’s mother had described the camp, but he found it impossible to imagine. They drive past it now, and he’s unprepared for what he sees. 

Tents, tarpaulins, and makeshift shelters cover the whole of Blackheath. Litter blows across the patchwork of grass and mud remains of the ancient common, collecting in piles. People sit on the edge of the road looking shell-shocked; others stand around between the tents. There is a long queue at a pipe with a tap at the end attached to a wooden stake. People are waiting with buckets and old milk cartons, bowls, and containers of all kinds. There’s another long queue at a bank of Portaloos. A sign above one marquee says, “Food supplies,” but there’s nothing but a table and some empty boxes.

The flooding happened ten days ago. On the news the prime minister assured his interviewer that the government would provide food, shelter, and water to all the flood victims, and that they would be re-homed within a week. There would be no repeat of what happened during previous floods, when people were without shelter for months and there was rioting and even an outbreak of cholera. 

The world rolls on like a film from behind the tinted glass screens of Mathew’s car. He has to tell himself, This is real; This could be me. 

They turn and drive across the common, towards the park. There are people on the road. The car slows, and its on-board computer registers the obstacle and sounds a horn, driving forward all the time. Most of the people scatter. One man in a suit that’s crumpled like it’s been slept in for the last ten nights turns and kicks the car, swearing angrily. A policeman marches towards him. Mathew turns to the back window to see what happens next, but the car drives away down the hill, and the man and the policeman are gone.

They wind their way to the river. The flood level is dropping, and people whose houses were swamped are clearing the mess as the water retreats from their homes. Mattresses are pulled over walls to dry. Piles of ruined household things lie around with detritus from the river – branches, leaves, sodden paper, fabric, cans, bottles, and sludge. The car pauses while people walk across the road carrying a table, and Mathew gazes straight into the eyes of an old woman sitting on the wall of her house. It’s as if she’s staring at him, and he has to remind himself that she wouldn’t be able to see through the tinted glass. She has an expression of total despair on her face. Mathew wants to open his door and help, but the car drives on. 

Down one of the streets, next to some half-flooded factory buildings, there’s a makeshift ferry. Like Aegis, many entrepreneurial people are finding ways of benefitting from the disaster. 

The car stops, and the guard does a quick check of the area, walking to the water’s edge to talk to the ferryman, before he comes back to open Mathew’s door. 

“Go with that man,” he says, pointing. “You’ll be safe. The boat will